Last night, as I removed a three pound box of macaroni from it's flimsy grocery bag, the bottom of the box simply went pop. Three pounds of macaroni fell all over the kitchen floor.
Three pounds. All over. The floor.
I think I actually blacked out because I cannot account for at least four minutes of my life between "Inside Edition" and "Entertainment Tonight."
I can hear one or two of you saying quietly, "Sweep it up...just do it...use it...who'll know.....?" But not only had it magically spread to the four corners of the room, out the door and into the hallway but I had already stumbled around in it, Buzzy was already batting it about and my kitchen floor is none too clean to begin with.
All I need is for Seth to find a granule of something naughty in his food and I will finally find myself, once and for all, out on my ass on the front step with all the doors and windows locked.
Standing amidst the macaroni, my immediate reaction was to go get Boomer -- the family bat used for both revenge and baseball -- and quite simply, destroy the house.
Kept under the bed, within reach in case of undefined emergency, Boomer has been with us since the beginning. Once, thinking (or so he says), I was a burglar, Seth nearly cracked me in the skull with Boomer but I hold no ill will against the bat. Seth, on the other hand....
I actually pivoted in the direction of the bedroom, my heel grinding on macaroni, an image of Boomer in my head.
Roiling inside that same head were thoughts of pure mayhem: I will take that bat and swing it in rhythmic circles, wider and wider until the house falls down around me. Yeah, that's what I'll do....
Who could possibly blame me once they saw the macaroni, ankle deep, on the linoleum?
|Yes or no???|
My moment had arrived. I would finally exact retribution for more than the macaroni. I would avenge what I still consider the premature cancellation of "The Gilmore Girls" (did Lorelai ever really work it out with Luke? It was just all too iffy for me),the splinter I got from the boardwalk in '87, the episiotomy of "89 and that paper cut on my nose last month.
This all seemed perfectly reasonable. I was going to do this. Mayhem was my goal. I was Ozzy Osborne ready to bit the head off a dove. I was every rock 'n' roller who'd ever smashed a guitar to smithereens on a stage, I was totally off my rocker...until, from the window of Charlie's room, I happened to see a fat, white moon leering smugly from the evening sky. Ahhh, moon, I thought...you tricky so-and-so, you got me again.
I have written about the effects of the full moon here and here and here. They usually sneak up on me so, as a result, you can now find a feature entitled "Understanding Why You May Be Experiencing Irrational Impulses" on the left side of this blog. I hope you will find it helpful. I know I will.
Luckily once I realized why I was feeling like a total lunatic (get it?), my desire to reduce the house to a pile of timber quickly dissipated. I cleaned up the macaroni, ate a piece of cheese, and that was that.
The moon is almost, but not quite, 100% full. Keep calm, America.
Here's a beautiful song about the moon....